Marco,
Marco,
Five A.M. is when the demons arise. They come in different dorms and playmagic tricks, losing the mind to a trance on the side of your desk; losing reality limb from limb until it's in a graveyard. In this realm you could be a god, trembled hands turn powder to snow on a Christmas morning, taking its time unraveling second, by second in its patience and plays a lullaby; sweet of its sound it is mute to the world. These colors, they speak to me.
They keep me
company.
It's been lonely these days. The two-toned man with blonde and brunette is
a painter; strokes of red shades on his eyes, they blend with the icy blue in between, where the icy blue runs down clear, blending red down to his cheeks. It's been lonely; pale palette to hands of white, blending to the snow in his veins. Jean Kirschstein isn't even a full human being anymore; he is the blending of colors-these colors, they fill this void. This void is the only solid thing in him and what is in him is empty; what's a god when he is a hollow porcelain, how can he rule? Who can he rule when he can't rule himself when he needs, the help of others to keep him sane.
Marco,
Marco,
These colors-they tell stories. They talk of demon in shapes of human, strong and handsome as they come. Strong build and in armor, bones in all, rips the enemies of his world and keeps their remains in fingernails. He is a painter, painting the blood of his enemies as war paint, without even knowing, the enemies are himself; blending tears with blood until the colors look more like a pale color. Strong, handsome, and on the edge of his knees in shame, cuss words engraved like tattoos to his throat and hands in the shape of razors to hurt others. Feeds himself to fits and punches, and words only cowards would speak.
But then he came.
Marco Bodt, the way his name slips through the most of cowards still seems..heavenly. Fingers dipped in lace and voice the way angels sing. He is a palette of soft browns, in his freckles, his hair, in his eyes, and the mocha-colored feeling of warmth when he is with him. In him was heaven; every memory with him a dream, like sitting on the bench together and holding each other's hands, and the first time they've kissed; Jean, he pictures his every essence like colors-
These colors,
they've killed him.
Marco,
Marco,
Ripped him to pieces with every smile he had in him; turned him to ashes along with the powder on his desk. It's been, exactly two years today. Maybe if this empty man could've brought himself to addict himself to this man would've he lived longer, to have him be his salvation to his living, to escape the devils in his veins and
set him free.
But he's nowhere;
and it's time, to play god once again.
"Marco",
he cries,
"Marco".